


It's Only Rock and Roll

by DJH1950



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: #Shootweek18, AU, Everyone's a rock star, Gen, Shootweek18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14777055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJH1950/pseuds/DJH1950
Summary: For Shoot Week 18, our cast of characters are in different bands playing at a music festival- Root sees something she likes.





	It's Only Rock and Roll

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ZenTango for a story that moved me to get off the bench and revisit my two favorite characters. Oh yeah- the story is Turnaround and it's a great read.

Root smirked at Joss as the pair ducked behind the curtains at the side of the stage. The crowd was still roaring for a third encore- but schedules at Rocky Mountain High were set in stone. Unlike the crowd who was mostly just _stoned_.

As Zoe, John and Harold made their way off stage their tall, brunette front-woman was briefly distracted by a tiny figure in black jeans and a torn black t-shirt heading up the steps that led to where the band was waiting for the stage to complete it’s rotation so they could go back on and break down their equipment.

Root’s eyes followed the petite dark-haired woman who was talking to a blonde as they made their way to the platform where the bands would wait until introduced by the announcer- a faceless voice that was the only negative for Root during the entire weekend. It’s heavy British accent reminded her too much of Mr. Greer, her principal at Samaritan High in East Texas.

_“Let’s hear it one more time for Root’s Machine!… Now, for those of you who’ve waited patiently for our next act….”_

Root tuned out the voice as she headed back to begin the arduous task of packing up her twin synthesizers and the miles of electrical cord that hooked from her instruments to her desktop and then to the sound board. Teardown would be relatively simple compared to the setup which had to be accomplished in forty-five minutes.

The Machine was the second last act on the _Young Artists’ Stage_ at this year’s festival which had several stages and acts from all over the country and several foreign countries. Because there was no act following the one being introduced, the Machine really didn’t have to tear down immediately.

The problem was Harold- he was so OCD he bitched until they agreed that they’d pack everything away before any relaxing. So Root headed back to her position like the good soldier she was and went to work. She was vaguely aware of the music beginning less than fifty feet away and unconsciously tapped her feet to the blasting alternative number the closing act started with.

After a few minutes, the tone changed slightly as a familiar guitar lick was followed by a roar that Root felt in her gut. She looked up and noticed that only Harold was still at it tearing down the soundboard and his keys. John, Zoe and Joss were nowhere to be seen… oh wait.

She wandered over and joined her bandmates as they watched the performance, and Root was mesmerized. The woman’s voice was deep, soul-filled and angry as she half sung and half shouted one of the all-time classics.

 _In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…_  
_At night we ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines_  
_Sprung from cages on Highway 9_  
_Chrome wheeled, fuel injected and steppin’ out over the line_  
_Oh baby this town rips the bones from your back_  
_It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap_  
_We gotta get out while we’re young_  
_Cause tramps like us_  
_Baby we were born to run._

Root stood enraptured by the tiny dark haired lady who looked like she might be of Eastern European or Arab descent. The energy poured off her as she attacked her guitar and screamed into the mic.

_How does she pull that off? I think even the Boss would be impressed._

The number raced to a wild crescendo. The crowd went crazy when the woman grabbed a black tenor sax and hit Clarence Clemon’s solo like she owned it. Root was stunned at the energy the little lady brought to her performance.

_This one’s going to be a superstar- and-oh yeah, she’s really hot._

As the band played a couple more classic rock songs with the audience roaring at every number, even Harold wandered over to watch. He leaned over to Root and yelled into her ear.

“That’s Shaw, she’s flavor of the day on iHeart.”

Root stared at her bandmate.

“She’s more than that Harry- she’s going to be huge.”

Harold shrugged.

“From what I’ve heard, her band’s ready to implode. See the keyboardist? The blonde- Martine’s her name. She’s got a serious drug problem and the band is split on how to deal with it.

“Shaw and the bass player, the stocky guy, I think they’re cousins? They want to dump her and find a replacement. See the drummer? Name’s Lambert and he was the original founder of the group. He’s Martine’s current companion and he’s protecting her. Their agent thinks their music deal might blow up over this.”

Root stared at her bandmate.

“What’s the band’s name?”

“The _Eclectics_.”

“Never heard of ‘em.”

“You spend too much time trying to bring your little music program to life.”

“Look who’s talking Mr. AI- I’m surprised you can tear yourself away from the pursuit of _Artificial Intelligence_ long enough to keep up with anything other than coding and the band.”

“I have many interests Ms. Groves.”

“Come on Harry, I’m Root here too, not just on stage.”

“Indeed.”

As the last few notes of the Eclectics cover of Mellancamp’s _I Need a Lover (Who won’t drive me crazy)_ sounded, Root was dragged back by a roadie. As she turned to snarl at the young man, who looked scared, yet determined, she realized the object of her interest was racing off stage and about to run her over.

Standing back, the tall brunette watched in awe as a stagehand held out a leather outfit that looked way too small for anyone other than possibly a tween. The tiny performer threw her t-shirt to the side and unselfconsciously peeled off the skin tight jeans.

She was clad only in skin tight black boy shorts as the stagehand helped her into the black shiny pants and handed her a matching vest with barely enough fabric to cover her ample breasts. Root was standing open-mouthed as she took in the muscles that rippled as she wedged herself into the pants part of the suit.

As the performer slipped the vest in place, hooked the single clasp and slammed her feet back into the black boots she also wore with the jeans, she looked up and caught Root staring open-mouthed. Her blank stare was shaded with just a hint of amusement as she headed back on-stage.

“Rude to stare.”

Root felt her cheeks burning as she realized she’d been outed. There was heat spreading in other places as well.

_OMG! She’s as hot as anyone I’ve ever seen. Those muscles I bet she could…._

Root’s reverie was interrupted by Harold tapping her on the shoulder.

“I said we should go back and finish tear-down.”

“Sorry Harry, I’m going to watch the rest of this.”

The next three numbers flew by, Shaw staying on her guitar for all- the saxophone apparently forgotten. Root’s eyes followed the tiny performer as she roamed the stage periodically stopping at her bandmates’ positions to play solos and duets with several. The crowd, already at a fever pitch, seemed to crank in intensity as the last notes of an original punk tune, apparently titled “I Saw You Kissing Bear” faded.

Suddenly the lights went to black and the crowd, almost impossibly, got even louder. Their screams were accompanied by a chant Root couldn’t quite make out with all the other crowd noise. As the crowd roared, a single spotlight lit up the stage toward the left side.

Shaw had donned a black leather wide brimmed hat that matched her outfit. She was wearing plain dark sunglasses and had approached the bass player. The tiny performer reached behind her bandmate and pulled out a matching Fender Jazz Bass. She slipped the strap over her shoulder and approached the mic.

“I was just told by the guy running this stage that we have to get off now…”

The crowd’s roar turned surly, dangerous.

“I told him to fuck off, we’re finishing the set.”

The crowd exploded.

“I want to thank you on behalf of the band for sticking around. You guys really make it for us….”

The crowd’s roar got even louder.

“But you know… what makes it for me?”

( _Impossibly, louder roar_ )

Shaw started to play a lick on the bass that was familiar, yet Root knew she’d never heard it before. The performer’s head was rocking back and forth, reminiscent of Stevie Wonder.

“A good bass line.”

She noodled on the Jazz Bass for a few bars, then the bass player joined in. After about thirty seconds, she slipped off the bass and headed toward the blonde’s keyboard. As the haunting bass line continued, she started playing the keyboard, sliding under the bass’ sounds, then over with a soft melodic pattern that faded then came up with a vengeance.

“You know what else makes it for me?”

( _Crowd is now going berserk_ )

“Ticklin’ your keys.”

As she played for a few bars, the blonde joined her at the keyboard. The pair played together for a few bars, then Shaw left and went to center stage where she picked up her guitar. As she blended the guitar into the bass and keys rhythms, Root noticed the drummer had slipped a soft bass drum and snare riff into the mix.

_Smooth_

Shaw looked down at her guitar, then looked back at the crowd which now sounded like it was about to riot.

“You know what else makes it for me?”

Root realized the performance reminded her of Tina Turner’s rendition of Proud Mary- the way she introduced the song (“We like to start off nice and easy but we finish nice and rough). She was spellbound at the performer’s command of the stage. It was _her_ universe and her’s alone.

As she slid her fingers around the strings, she looked up with a smirk that was visible despite the dark glasses.

“What makes it for me? A few licks on my baby.”

As the crowd roared, Root felt heat once again spreading through her body.

As Shaw played several bars along with the rest of the band, the other guitarist approached. The pair played together for less than a minute before Shaw set the guitar gently in its stand and walked over a few feet toward the saxophone that was sitting, apparently forgotten between the bass player and the keys.

As ( _again, impossibly_ ) the crowd’s roar grew, she picked up the sax, which Root noticed had gold flecks inlaid from the neck down through the bow and all the way to the bell. The performer picked it up, tilted her head as if she was considering what to do with it, then walked slowly to center stage and her mic.

“But you know what really makes it for me? Really, _Really_ makes it for me?”

Root was pretty sure she’d never seen a crowd so turned on.

_They love this, and most have seen it before._

Root’s breath caught as she watched Shaw prep her sax. While she’d seen others who played the instrument moisten the reed and the mouthpiece before playing, she’d never seen anyone make love to it before.

Shaw slid her tongue along the bottom of the mouthpiece, then licked the sides. Her tiny pink tongue slid along the top, then she opened her mouth and slid the entire mouthpiece in and out in an obvious act. Then returning to sliding her tongue along the reed, she abruptly stopped and put her mouth almost on the mic.

In a whisper that cut through the crowd, which had gone silent at the woman’s blatant oral ministrations on the saxophone, she drew out two words.

“Good Sax!”

The lights came up the crowd erupted and the band blew into an earthy, bluesy number with the saxophone rising above everything else, then slipping under the bands stunning sound, which seemed to mix blues, jazz, and classic rock seamlessly all the while highlighting the wailing of the sax.

Root felt like a voyeur… a willing and enthusiastic one. The song got down in her core and if anything, increased the heat she’d felt watching Shaw’s performance. As the song wound down the crowd’s chant could now be understood as it rose over the fading chords.

_Good sax… Good sax._

The stage suddenly went black as the music abruptly cut off. A single spot again lit up Shaw as she stood at center stage, the saxophone hanging off to her left side. She reached for the hat and pulled a single cigarette from the brim. A lighter appeared in her hand as if by magic, and she slowly lit the cigarette (which suspiciously looked hand-rolled) and took a deep drag.

Holding it for just a few seconds she then slowly released the smoke.

As it swirled around her face and the mic, she looked out at the crowd.

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

The crowd again exploded as the band played a thirty second exit punctuated by Shaw’s once again putting the sax to her mouth and wailing.

As the crowd shouted and stomped, the sound trailed off and the lights dimmed, then came up again as the band appeared next to Shaw, took a bow and walked off toward a breathless Root.

The tall brunette stood, mouth open as the band filed past her. As Shaw approached, she removed the dark glasses and smirked. She reached out and handed the doobie to Root, then took her hand and grabbed the taller woman by the neck.

Pulling her in for a hot kiss, she then whispered in her ear before she pulled away.

“Still rude to stare.”

Just like that, she was gone… down the steps and disappearing into a crowd of well-wishers and hangers-on. Root’s hand trembled as she almost dropped the blunt.

_I think I’m in love._

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand alone (IMHO) but it may end up being the beginning of a series. We'll see. Comments feed the author.


End file.
